“If I refuse?” she asked.
“I send for the chief of the police.”
She looked him up and down, a measured, merciless survey. He was a tall, big man, but he seemed to shrink into insignificance.
“You are a coward and a bully,” she said slowly. “You know quite well that I am innocent of any knowledge even concerning Duson’s death. But I would sooner meet my fate, whatever it might be, than suffer even the touch of your fingers upon my hand. Your presence is hateful to me. Send for your chief of the police. String your lies together as you will. I am satisfied.”
She left him and swept from the room, a spot of colour burning in her cheeks, her eyes lit with fire. The pride of her race had asserted itself. She felt no longer any fear. She only desired to sever herself at once and completely from all association with this man. In the hall she sent for her maid.
“Fetch my cloak and jewel case, Celeste,” she ordered. “I am going across to the Bristol. You can return for the other luggage.”
“But, madam—”
“Do as I say at once,” Lucille ordered.
The girl hesitated and then obeyed. Lucille found herself suddenly addressed in a quiet tone by a man who had been sitting in an easy-chair, half hidden by a palm tree.
“Will you favour me, madam, with a moment’s conversation?”